


Macbeth 2.0

by headlesschandelier, Pep_Pizza



Category: Macbeth - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Army References, Bangtan Boys | BTS References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:54:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 14,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26059063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headlesschandelier/pseuds/headlesschandelier, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pep_Pizza/pseuds/Pep_Pizza
Summary: --Start a lonely prologue of our double,A beginner’s tale, for one’s lost troubles!For Macduff’s wife had never truly left,And Banquo’s son was never truly his,Being fed with whispers and plans since theft,And to which Macbeth’s plan to fruit was this:A son begotten by beheaded King,(Assist from weird witches and tainted ghosts)An empty prophecy will wait to bring,A love, a tale, an adventure to toast!What once was lost and now is found again,To fulfill and rule what Macbeth lost then.A name to fear, I’ll tell thee only once.A tale begun by the name of Fleance.--ORA sequel to the original Macbeth by William Shakespeare: The story of Macbeth may be over, but what of Banquo’s prophecy? This is the story of Fleance, the boy who surpassed all odds to achieve greatness.
Relationships: Fleance/Lady Macduff, Macduff/Lady Macduff, Ross/Old man
Kudos: 3





	1. Prologue

**Characters**

_Thanes and Nobility:_

Malcolm - King of Scotland  
-Donalbain, his brother  
Macduff - Thane of Cawdor  
-Lady Macduff, his wife  
Ghost Lady Macbeth  
Lennox - Thane and attendant of Malcolm  
Angus - Thane and attendant of Malcolm  
Ross - Messenger and attendant of Malcolm

Fleance - Thane of Lochaber and Glamis  
\- (deceased) Banquo’s son

_Other characters:_

Friar Lawrence - Magic shop owner  
Old man

\-----

**Prologue**

Start a lonely prologue of our double,  
A beginner’s tale, for one’s lost troubles!  
For Macduff’s wife had never truly left,  
And Banquo’s son was never truly his,  
Being fed with whispers and plans since theft,  
And to which Macbeth’s plan to fruit was this:  
A son begotten by beheaded King,  
(Assist from weird witches and tainted ghosts)  
An empty prophecy will wait to bring,  
A love, a tale, an adventure to toast!  
What once was lost and now is found again,  
To fulfill and rule what Macbeth lost then.

A name to fear, I’ll tell thee only once.  
A tale begun by the name of Fleance.

\-----

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After three years of work, we've finally produced our masterpiece! We'll be posting a new chapter every day, so please subscribe to follow along~
> 
> (If you're an ARMY, you can look forward to all the hidden references too ^_^ )  
> Enjoy the read!


	2. Act 1 Scene 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fleance and Macduff have a heartfelt chat.

Two figures sit at a round table in a large, unoccupied room. The walls of the space are stacked with legal papers and war treaties, high enough so that a single gust of wind is more than capable of knocking them all over in one fell swoop. The windows are closed, almost as if the occupants themselves can guess the disasters that would follow such a mistake. They sit in an awfully quiet manner, sipping from their teacups and enjoying the rays from the sunlight filtering in from outside. 

A dramatic sigh interrupts the silence. “Why, those horrible countries ought to be ashamed of themselves! Waging war in a time of tranquility, what atrocities swarm their brain?”

“I suppose it’s what kingdoms do when they’ve grown bored,” the 18-year old boy with chestnut hair shrugs in response, looking hopeless. “Kingdoms pick fights with each other.”

“Nevertheless, preposterous ideas spring like commonfolk these days.” The man sighs, shaking his head with his hand on his forehead. “Do our allies not understand what they are staking, the lives they are risking? Staining their hands with permanent red… do they not understand that they are starting battles they cannot always win?”

“But they do believe they can win, sir.” 

“Nonsense! Fleance, when thou become higher in the terms, thou will witness and come to understand the greed that fills men’s hearts when their lives have grown idle. These bunches of cowards, however, art nothing but rats trying to run under a cat’s paws.”

The blonde-haired boy, Fleance, speaks cautiously, “If they are asking for defeat, there is nothing we can do to stop them, is there?” 

“But we, Scotland, as noble allies must assist in this war to repay them for the favors they have done for us in reclaiming Malcolm’s throne.”

“We shall fight, and we shall win,” Fleance responds, unworried.

Macduff, however, only continues to shake his head in disapproval, as if he is unconvinced. “It’s a shame that Siward had to leave us so soon, before the blooming of the country could complete its course. Especially now, when our country needs his gratified presence thus most.”

“Do not worry, Macduff. With thou as our commander, this battle will be over most quickly.” 

A moment of silent thought. Then Macduff collapses quietly into his chair, sighing with longing. “Why, the old days ring well within my weathered mind!” 

“Indeed.” It seems that the mention of Malcolm’s battle has stirred old memories in the man. Fleance relaxes back into his chair, as if he is reminiscent as well, or merely thoughtful. “It only seems just like yesterday when our country was on the brink of destruction, and now we are here, still together and in one piece.”

“Yes. Thou are quite right, my boy.” Macduff sets his teacup down on the tray. “Oh, when Duncan used to rule these prosperous lands! It all seems so far away now, my mind cannot bear to think of it.”

“But Malcolm is our king now.”

“Yes, Fleance, he is. And he is a fine one.” Macduff stops only a moment to grind his teeth on past vengeance. “He makes a much better king than that good-for-nothing Macbeth would’ve ever been.”

Fleance feels a twinge inside him at the mention of the name, but by sensing the tension in the air, he decides to avert the topic as quickly as possible. “And how is thy family doing, sir?”

It seems to be the right thing to ask, since the mood effectively stabilized. “She used to be a baby bird out of her nest, but now my wife is better than ever,” Macduff grins, his mood lightening at the mere mention of the love of his life. “She has recovered much from her initial wounds, and her cheeks have gained much color.”

Fleance understands Macduff’s delight. It had only been two days after hearing about his wife’s death that he had stormed Macbeth’s castle, put Malcolm to the throne, and then found his wife hiding in a room tucked away in the back of the castle, alive. It must’ve been too good to be true for the sorrow-struck man when he found that the death presented to him was merely a lie. The realization had made Macduff so happy, he couldn’t leave her side for weeks.

As Macduff takes another sip of his tea, Fleance can’t keep himself from staring. He doesn’t want to admit it, but Macduff seems more… tired than usual. His movements are slow and careful, like an old man’s, and his eyes are unfocused, like he could not concentrate well. And is it just his imagination, or are Macduff’s cheeks drooping, his eyelids wrinkling at the sides, and his beard hair growing slightly gray?

“I am glad to hear it. But,” Fleance doesn’t try to hide the concern from his voice, “how art  _ thou _ doing, sir?”

To his surprise, Macduff lets out a barking laugh. “Why,” He chuckles, “art thou suggesting these old man’s bones are too fragile?”

Fleance pales slightly at his on-point guess. “N-no, not at all, sir–! I only meant—”

“Of course, thou need not worry so much about me.” The older man takes a deep breath. “Certainly, I have had my better days, but I am still far from becoming unable to serve my King and my country. Until I am incapable of holding a sword, I will not be backing down to any enemy or foe.”

Fleance feels himself relax. “That is a relief, sir.”

“As a kindness, I feel it is only right for me to return the question.” Macduff now leans forward, his elbows on the table and his chin on his hands. “Are thou doing alright yourself, my boy?”

“I’m not a boy anymore,” comes his retort. And Fleance is quite right. He isn’t the same boy that night, who watched Banquo’s blood spill on a murderer’s hands. He isn’t the same boy that watched his father flick out the flame in the torchlight, sending the world into pitch-darkness and letting him escape as Banquo was beat into the afterlife.

No, he is a different person. He is a  _ man _ now. He has grown taller, tall enough to match Duncan, and even surpass Macduff. His body is stronger, swifter, the build of a warrior he has become. The cheekiness has left his face, and his jawline has grown hard and defined. His hair has grown out, and swept over his forehead in bangs. His eyes have turned sharp, like he is always thinking, but they nonetheless shine with a youth’s creative vigor. Ladies swoon at him wherever he walks, but he is yet to notice them.

Macduff smiles at Fleance’s response. “Of course, thou art a man now. It is only a habit of the soul for mine to call thee so, I promise. It is only that I want to give you all the voices till I die, give you all the shoulders when you cry.”

“I’m doing fine,” Fleance responds dismissively. “Being a Thane wasn’t as difficult as you’ve all stretched it out to be.”

Macduff grins. “Yes, High and Mighty lord Thane of Lochaber.”

Fleance raises his eyebrows. “Thine humor lacks competence, sir.” 

“Thou were only a young child… thou must understand our skepticism.” Macduff shrugs easily, but then refocuses his serious gaze. “Thou know that is not what I am asking, however.”

“What dost thou mean to ask, then?” Fleance challenges.

“Please, do not be stubborn with me. Thou are free to speak about any of thine troubles with me, if must. Thou know it all, I daresay given the current stance, thine art my best friend. I will listen well, like a father thoust never had.”

Fleance grits his teeth. The words have triggered something inside of him, sparking a flame like a match striking coals. “I  _ have _ a father!” He protests loudly, resisting the urge to slam his fists on the table. He has to remind himself to keep it together. “I had a father, and you don’t have to replace anyone.”

Macduff’s eyes grow sympathetic. “My apologies… I didn't mean it in that way. I had not meant to upset thou. I’d only meant to offer mine services.”

Fleance feels his eyes growing moist. How can anyone help if they don’t even know the whole story? “Y-you don’t understand.”

“I understand how painful it must’ve been, to watch thine own father get murdered.” Although Macduff said the words to reassure Fleance, they only serve to make him more frustrated. “A traumatizing scene for any boy, I would suppose, to see their only remaining family fall into death’s hands. But if thou look at thineself now, I would say you’ve come down a hard but rewarding path. Thou art just as successful as thine father, if all not more so.” Macduff stands himself up, leaving the teacups on the table. “He would’ve been proud of thee.”

No response.

A moment of silence later, Fleance hears clothes rustling. “I am very glad that you took the time to sit and speak with me today. It brings me true joy to see how much you've grown over the years.”

Fleance looks up briefly. Macduff is offering his hand. But Fleance only looks away, a hurt expression on his face. “I… I need a moment.”

Macduff hesitates a moment, then lets his arm drop next to him. “Of course, I understand your mind’s troubles. Take your time to sort it — I will go attend to some matters.” Fleance listens to Macduff’s footsteps as he strolls to the door, turns the knob, and leaves.

Fleance sits quietly for a while, thinking angrily to himself. The nerve of Macduff, to claim he knows everything Fleance had gone through, when he doesn’t even know half of it! Just because Macduff no longer has children doesn’t mean he has to go around claiming other orphaned kids, does it? Why couldn’t he just keep his know-it-all mouth shut sometimes?

It isn’t exactly just that, however. Fleance has felt an urge to scream when Macduff tells him how he is sorry for Banquo. He has felt an urge to shout out everything, the truth about Macbeth’s fakes and lies, the moment anyone felt like doubting Fleance’s ability to work because of childhood trauma. If no one understands the truth, how can they pretend to believe they understand  _ him _ ?


	3. Act 1 Scene 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm conducts the army plans with the soldiers, preparing for war. Then Malcolm and Macduff briefly speak before leaving.

“And then, thine troops shall make a retreat and circle around the outer ring of Birnam Wood with the English to overtake their backs…”

“Yes, Your Highness.” 

Macduff does not miss the sounds of discontented whispers and annoyed murmurs behind him. The soldiers, having been through Macbeth’s tyranny once before, are not exactly keen to go marching back into it again. Yet here they are, at the King’s disposal to go fight another war. _When would it all stop?_ They seem to ask. _When were they finally going to find the peace they deserved?_

Frustrated at the soldiers’ lack of competency and loyalty, Macduff whirls around. “And thou call yourselves men!” he growls. “Grumbling and wheezing like old cows in a barn, to what do thoust owe thine loyalty and thanks to none other than the King? It should please thee to serve him.”

“Macduff.” That is Malcolm’s warning voice. “I understand thou mean to back me up, but it is not necessary to be so rash.”

Macduff looks to the soldiers. They are more restless now, looking uncertain and nervous. Macduff realizes what he has done, and feels ashamed. He takes a deep breath, then nods. “My apologies. Their words had simply irked me, Your Highness.”

“Do not worry much, my commander. I shall handle the situation promptly.” After patting Macduff briefly on the shoulder, Malcolm turns to his people. “Now soldiers, do not fear the war that dawns before us. Though we have fought bravely before to regain our country, we must recognize it was not possible without the help of England and their King’s kindness. Now, to pay back our graces, we shall assist them in this untimely war. Remember that we are bulletproof. Any battle we fight we will win. Once all is over and done, we shall finally gain peace for ourselves and our country… once and for all!”

“ _Once and for all!_ ” The soldiers chorus back.

Malcolm curtly nods his approval. “Then all are dismissed. We set off tomorrow, when the early bird rises and sings its first note.”

The soldiers disperse, marching out the door in rows, seeming a little less annoyed after the King’s encouraging pep talk. Malcolm gives Macduff another pat on the back, seeing the man’s quiet, concerned expression. “Something of bother, my second-hand-man?” He asks, using a light tone.

But Macduff merely stares ahead, looking taxed. “I sometimes wonder… if someday, fighting these wars… shall my soul regret it all?”

Now it was Malcolm’s turn to look serious. “What dost thou mean?”

“All of this… I suppose I understand the soldiers’ line of sight,” Macduff sighs, his eyes looking more tired than they had ever in his last fifty or so years. “How we’ve come so far, only to launch ourselves back into warfare like a never-ending circle of a hamster’s wheel. When shall we attain peace, indeed? It’s always only a hand’s grasp away, but also so out of reach.”

Malcolm returns his worries with a sympathetic smile. “Do not worry, my friend. All’s well ends well. This battle shall be effortless, and will take its course as nature commands it. It will be over before we know it, I assure thee.” He finally pulls his arm back, and moves to step down from the podium. “I shall be seeing thee tomorrow morn then.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” 

Malcolm bids his goodbyes, departing with two guards following up behind him. He never goes anywhere without their company. Despite his protests on denying escorts, the people demand on hiring trustworthy soldiers to guard him, not wanting his fate to end like Duncan’s again. Macduff recognizes this wariness, this unsettling yet unspoken fear among all the people in this country. They are all afraid of tyranny, of war raging upon them again… 

After Malcolm leaves, the conference room is empty. Not a single soldier is left, leaving just Macduff by himself. His gaze travels over the marked battlemaps, the tables littered with sheets of plans and fortresses, the pins and tacks of war strategy and points of siege. He traces the line of attack he would follow on a nearby map, the one he’d lead along with his group of men. Malcolm has, once again, left the most important part of the battle to him. The only question that remains now is whether or not Macduff is up for the task.

Macduff doesn’t want to admit it then, but Fleance is right. He is certainly growing older – more senile – and is far from the young, bold man he used to be. He supposes it only makes sense; at this time of age, people like Fleance are supposed to be replacing old men like him. It is the circle of life, the ends to which all life met.

“Such a pity it is, that my life extension does not reach the full span of its usefulness, to serve my king longer,” Macduff hums to no one in particular, seeming thoughtful. “Perhaps, after this whole war is over, or maybe after a few more wars have happened later… I shall retire, and live the rest of my life in blessed peace with my beloved.”

Satisfied at this conclusion, Macduff withdraws his finger from the map and makes his move to leave. From just one confirmation, everything suddenly feels final, though Macduff knows it isn’t truly so. Just because he knows his limits doesn’t mean he is a grandpa yet. It would be a long time yet until he would be completely unable to serve his king any longer. 

Macduff has all the time in the world to think. What can possibly stop him from making his own decision?


	4. Act 1 Scene 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Towards the end of the battle, Ross comes to Malcolm with bad news.

The battle is raging: armies crying out in anger, troops marching and colliding into one another with swords and shields. Malcolm stands in the midst of it all, seeing the progress of his attack and listening quietly to the shouts and war cries in the air. As a king, it is his duty to act upon what is best for his country. As much as he dislikes to hear such a farce, he is nevertheless certain that this war would be their last, at least for a long while. 

So far, things are looking up. He has heard the success of the surprise attack, and though there had been some slight complications, their enemy is completely surrounded now. This battle would be over very soon.

There are hurrying footsteps behind him. Malcolm turns and sees Ross, panting for breath and sweating up a storm. 

“Y-your Highness,” Ross addresses the King quickly, looking terribly frightened. “In these tense times, it gives me great displeasure to bring thee a most unhappy news.

Malcolm suddenly freezes, a chill crawling up his spine. But why does he feel that way? Surely, there is no need to fear any news once they are on the verge of winning the war. “Proceed,” he mutters with an expressionless face, not looking Ross in the eye.

Ross’s lower lip trembles with fear and grief, but Malcolm did not want to guess why. “Sir…” He gulps, “Lord Macduff, he was bleeding tremendously and–”

Ross cuts himself short, choking back tears. Malcolm can only stare ahead, dread filling him as his body felt colder and colder with each second that dragged on, waiting for Ross to finish his sentence.

“Sire, Lord Macduff is dead. His heart beats no more.”

Malcolm feels very frozen now, as if an iceberg is dripping down his back. Why, of all the brave soldiers to fall in battle, it must fall to the good Macduff? “How?” He demands, his voice strained.

“We are uncertain, sir. It seems the enemy’s surprise attack were as right as our’s. Though the overtaking of their armies were successful, Macduff was not as fortunate.”

Malcolm feels sudden rage at the message; for despite the fall of his comrade, did none even know the real cause of his death? But he remembers his position. He sucks in his grief, and speaks in a cold tone, “Very well, then. Even more the reason that we hope this does not end in vain. I cannot lose heart now. I must not. I wish thou all do the same.”

Ross nods slowly, as if he himself is even incapable of swallowing the truth. “Now, what of his wife? How hath we communicate this to gentle Lady Macduff, sire?”

“Good god, that slipped off me mind. Yes, that Lady Macduff. Ross, you know what to do. Speak to her very gently. Old and weary as she gets, she is like a godmother to me.”

“...Yes, sire.”

“This is a matter we must attend to at court,” Malcolm turns away, his expression unreadable. “For now, let us place our grievances aside and tie the knot to this successful surprise attack in the name of the great Macduff.” 

Ross bows, looking grave. “As you say, my Lord.” 


	5. Act 1 Scene 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Macduff hears of the death of her husband and is overtaken with grief.

Lady Macduff falls to her knees. Her hands cover her face, unable to stop her tears. “For the sake of sanity, leave me alone good sir. Please… do not see me like this, making a fool of myself to the greatest degree.”

Ross offers a sorrowful nod. There was no doubt his message had brought the lady much pain. He will let her mourn in peace. “Forgive me,” he replies, then exits quickly.

For a long time, Lady Macduff remains motionless. She can hardly swallow the truth of Ross’s words, nor shoulder the burden of another loss. “My little darling fell in my arms, dead… because I could not hide him under my shawls. It all comes back to my incompetence. Now again, when I had begun to hope once more, the seesaw upon which I sit upon tilts away from me. Do I only live under a house of cards?”

She tries in vain to wipe away her tears, but her heartbreak is overwhelming. Her sobs fill the room.

“The color hath drained from mine cheek. It has made me yellow and pale, left me cold and loveless. My paper heart a mere fragment, I roam frail. Don’t leave me! Without thee my lord, there is no summer, no place home, no soul here. What is love? An interim, a standby, for when thou art gone, what is dusk? What is dawn?” The lady stands shakily. “No hour the same. Time doesn’t exist. No more dreams to pass. Everything goes, everything stops in space, no moment to embrace. 

“I do remember thy touch. Thy texture, thy feel, the touch of thee hand in mine. Fingers interlocked, palms connected, souls intact, heartbeats synced, breaths coincided… our perfect moment. Silence whispering, only aware to thee. To thy sound. Be lost in it. Be oblivious to the world.” She cries out in pain, the hollowness in her overwhelming. “Gone, gone, gone! Long gone! A thing of the past. With every second of thy chest not heaving, a memory in mine mind goes fading. Take me with thee! Don't be cruel — existence is a shame, our mortality to blame, caught in a lie.”

The lady grows quiet, her cries turn into rambling. “Those murderers of my baby were Macbeth’s men. That vile creature hath snatched away my happiness from me. His death was not enough, for his stigma I shall share. When I come for the traitor's soul, it is he who shall flee.”

Lady Macduff closes her eyes, and in her sorrow she falls into a trance. The void of her pain has swallowed her whole, making her see and feel nothing. She feels motionless and emotionless. The hands in the darkness are reaching for her, pulling her down into the abyss.

“I was dead as an autumn leaf. But my heart was still beating. I was breathing. But I wasn't alive.”

The hands drag her into the ground. She is buried alive, in the freezing pitch black. Lady Macduff tries for a second to reach, but quickly gives up when she realizes there is nothing for her to grab onto.

“Numb and unaware, I treaded fantasy grounds. I followed darkness with my eyes closed. Blackness guided me. A blind fragment, I set foot on cold air and ran toward void. Unexpected dangerous paths, all senses snatched away, I held tight to imagination, its wicked self deceiving my unconsciousness.”

Tiredness suddenly envelops her. Her limbs are heavy. It feels like she’s run for ages, but every direction she goes is endless.

“We reached nowhere. I hadn't gotten far. Thou stole my trust, then abandoned me with temporary scars.” Darkness trembles around her. “Sound and empty, murk gloomed inside me. It cast its shadow. A mere vessel, I was left lying stone cold. The swaying curtain became the only known form of life. I felt the wind whisper every now and then. Collective air escaped my lips. Save me, oh save me!”

Lady Macduff shakes herself into reality. She sees her room, but doesn’t see it. Her eyes stop working — her world becomes a fuzzy mirage.

“Eyes open. I saw nothing.”

Is this how the world has always looked? So grey and gloomy? Lady Macduff can no longer imagine remaining in such a damp and colorless world.

“What nightmare art thou, O life! Pinch me awake from wicked dreams, for I no longer wish to see, to be, to feel, to live. Embrace me heavens, for there I belong with thee. A tiny voice I have always suppressed, waiting to be released, held prisoner against its will. Buried deep down, it whispers from time to time, begging for freedom and longing for air.

“I want to unleash it. Release my guard and persona. Let it take over! Let it take charge! I've become the alter ego of the hidden me, the me that I don't want to see, the me that I don't want to be.” 

The darkness grows without stopping, but the lady does not try to stop it. “I crave for strong power. Thank thee. Engulf me, surround me, make me powerful again.” She falls limp with acceptance. “I am thee, and thou art me. Numb the pain… and set me free.”


	6. Act 1 Scene 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm and his courtiers hold a victory banquet over the Norwegian’s defeat. During the feast, Malcolm recognizes the need to appoint a new right-hand man.

Lennox clears his throat before announcing, “His Highness would like your attention please.”

The laughter and chatter in the room dies down. Wines of glass are set down, and silverware drops. All eyes turn to King Malcolm, at the head of the table. His smile is sad, but his eyes shine with pride. He steps up from his throne, and addresses his audience with a clear, commanding voice.

“He who hath shown the strength, the wit, and above all the true loyalty to good, to his masters, to his friendship and to his world,” Malcolm raises his glass of crimson goodness, sparkling in the light, “I speak this of the good Macduff. He has left us, but his memory shall hold in our hearts long as we embrace it. Thus I bid thee sweet farewell, kind sir.”

Quiet “farewells” can be heard across the table, along with quiet prayers and blessings, murmured by grieving nobles raising their glasses as well. After all the subjects drink, Malcolm sits back down, his heart feeling heavy.

“How awful,” he continues to say, “what a blow struck to his humble family and how petty the time he hath gotten from the day he discovered his wife alive. Ah almighty, mercy. Have mercy. Kiss not the good ones, the peck of death and misery, how you hath not to the unwise for long. Amen.” 

The men at the table chant back in unison, “ _ Amen. _ ”

“I understand it seems rather rushed, and I know our minds are filled with sorrow.” Malcolm pauses for a moment, pondering deeply. “However… we must not possess any grieving remembrance of them, now that they are no longer present, but should turn our attention to those we are yet to encounter in our short-lived lives.”

Ross is quick to catch the king’s meaning. “Does thou have someone in mind, your majesty?”

“Perhaps,” is Malcolm’s vague reply. “The new commander of the army and my right-hand man must only be a gem, reflecting the services and qualities of his parental predecessors.”

At this, the other men at the table jump on the opportunity to converse, discussing informally among themselves about all the possible choices. Who can possibly replace the great and noble Macduff? Just who could possibly stand in a position of such great utmost importance and power?

“The young hatchling of Macduff, brutally slaughtered,” one noble with bushy facial hair ponders, looking thoughtful. “There is no heir there, sir. Hath the treacherous Macbeth a son I know not of?”

“Nay,” one confirms.

“What of Donalbain? Where hath he gone?”

“To a land far off, wedded to another country,” another man muses. “His role seems not capable of becoming king of two.” 

“Then there was ol’ Banquo,” Angus chimes in. “Worthy of our word... Now, his lad hath ripened.”

The bearded man is nodding now, his mustache bobbing with his head. “Aye, aye, he hath indeed. He hath also the looks, unlike his father.”

The suggestion is quick to spread among the conversationalists. One suggests that any son of Banquo’s was sure to be successful, while courage and strength are all important in a leader. Youth is also another factor the men considered, mostly to compare to Macduff’s old age. Indeed, perhaps Macduff had been too old, and had given reason for himself to fall in battle. Could this disaster not be simply avoided with a younger, bolder replacement?

Malcolm simply sits there, his chin resting on his folded hands. He listens with great interest at his subjects’ talks, and nods to himself when he hears something that strikes him as honest and worthy of further consideration. Perhaps these discussions have made some sense, after all. Malcolm would have to look into it, and find just how capable these suggestions would be for the replacement he is looking for.


	7. Act 2 Scene 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Fleance goes on his way to be crowned Malcolm's new advisor, he meets the three witches.

Fleance rides, his horse neighing underneath the reins. His destination lies in Scone, where he is to be given the title of Malcolm’s new right-hand man. How his future had led him along this path, he knew not of, and now he felt only more uncertain than ever. As they tread down the path, Fleance suddenly stops. Something has moved in the corner of his eye, sneaking through the wood.

Fleance wonders if it is game. He swiftly changes direction, leading his horse off the safety of the rubble path and down into the dark forest. He halts near the entrance, peering around for suspicious figures. Only silence greets his narrowed eyes. He quietly gets off his horse, bringing his arrows with him. 

Now he hears it: a sinister mumbling farther down in the depths of the forest. Is it wind, or foe? Fleance ties up his horse, then steps into the unknown. The mumbling grows louder. Fleance is curious, but not afraid. He would get to the bottom of this suspicious business, lest he forever be in curious doubt.

His feet brush the leaves on the forest floor as he progresses. The quiet neighs of his horse are left behind, to be replaced with shivering branches and grey bushes. The incomprehensible mumbling grows louder, and Fleance realizes it is chanting. Someone — or some _ thing  _ rather — is here. He is drawn closer to an open clearing, and sees something terrifying.

“Ripple, ripple, grab the sickle, bear the curse and make it triple.” 

Three haggard figures in black cloaks are dancing around a roaring fireplace, chanting and singing like madwomen. Fleance watches, transfixed and horrified, as their shadows flicker on the ground, and the hags continue their chant over and over.

But then, all three come to a sudden stop. Their heads turn. Much to Fleance’s fright, their gazes are turned to his exact hiding spot.

“A son of promise!” One of them grins.

“An heir, do hush!” Another one hisses.

“Lost to death’s row with no heir to throne!”

“Come, come!” They chant, voices whispery.

Fleance, hesitantly, leaves his bush hideout. How these women had known his exact hiding place, he does not know. Yet, he feels it was not wise to disobey their commands. They are strange and ugly, but their aura is powerful. Fleance dreads to know what they want with him.

“What is it?” He demands. “What dost thou seek of me? And what heir do thou speakest of?”

“Patience, my dear,” the witch in the front tells him, cautiously moving a trembling finger in front of her pale lips, “Is what your old man failed to have.”

“My old man? What means by this?”

But the witches reply not, only proceeding to advance upon him, foreboding futures in their glazed, dead eyes. 

“Honor to gain, but not like his.”

“Revenge be yours, as death persists.”

“Ghostly returns, we promise this.”

“All hail Fleance, to be king, insists!” For a while, the witches madly cackle, returning to their ring-around-a-rosy. Fleance can only stare dumbfounded, his mind whirling from the predictions and promises the witches had bestowed upon him. 

“I don’t understand,” he admits. “I am no King, I am only Malcolm’s right-hand man. Thine claims are preposterous… why should I believe thee?”

One of the witches stops her prancing, and approaches him. “The sun will rise,” she wheezes, “The sun will rise and shine brighter than all the rest.” She points. Fleance looks, and he sees that the orange sun has, indeed, risen above the treetops to illuminate the once-dark forest. He turns back to ask the witches what they had meant, and what the sun represented.

But the fire in the fireplace is gone. The witches are gone.

“The sun…” Fleance repeats slowly, and suddenly, he understands.


	8. Act 2 Scene 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fleance tries to sleep, but is too bothered by the message of the witches to do so. When he gets up to grab himself a drink of water, he is approached by a mysterious woman.

The room is dark as the night is quiet. Or so he thinks. Not a light shone, though a moonbeam slants in from between the ebony curtains. Fleance lays alone in his bedchamber, staring at the black ceiling devoid of color, bewildered thoughts racing through his head.

“Dawn to dusk has carried the bizzare with it,” Fleance hums silently, warily, “but may I sleep soundly tonight, till it be morrow.”

Fleance waits for sleep, but it does not come. Outside his bedside window of closed curtains, Fleance swears he can hear the wind screaming and the owls shouting. How can he catch any winks with this horrible yowling from outside? The unavoidable queasiness is now rumbling inside of him.

“Ah, but… this sweet slumber doesn’t come to its master… how unfortunate this is. It propels me to ponder. Ponder about the hags. What they call the three witches.”

Fleance turns to his side, mostly to face away from the window he now dreads to listen to. “Anon they leave me in distress and pressure of royalty. A mere boy, with no father, how hath they chosen me?” His questions only go deeper the more he thinks about them. “Ghastly kingship, how shall I possess thee? A maiden too. But distant thoughts do throw me away from the bloody knife that is prepared to slay my throat open — Malcolm lives! Oh look at what overthought hath made of me.”

Fleance suddenly feels an overwhelming thirst upon him, a need to be quenched, a need to drink. He finally sits himself up, knowing he wouldn’t be able to sleep without satiation. “Boy,” He commands, facing his doorway to call upon the servant that would wait upon him. “Bring forth me a glass of water.”

Only a quiet, static silence is his response. 

The pit of his stomach suddenly feels very unsettled. “Ay boy,” He starts again, a little louder this time, “I said get me water.”

Still no response.

“Hey!” At this, Fleance can only sigh in defeat, realizing that no servant stands outside. “Ah, I must exert myself to get me one.” Carefully, he pulls the covers to the side and stands himself up, slipping into his robe before heading to the door.

A peek in the hallway reveals only darkness. He strides purposefully through the doorway, and he feels… something— an unmistakable chill crawling down his spine. Someone… someone is here. He turns quickly, and his eyes widen in fear.

“ _ HOLY Macbeth! _ ” he gasps.

A woman covered in a cloak who was not standing there before is now right outside his doorway, encompassing an eerie aura about her. She is not someone Fleance recognizes, nor is she someone authorized to be in the halls while the soldiers are patrolling… 

“Wh-wh-who art thou woman, what business have you here, who let you—”

“Fleance.”

He is startled, surprised at hearing his own name on this mysterious woman’s lips. “Exc-”

“Calm down, calm down my boy.” She finally pulls down her hood, revealing her face. Fleance understands almost immediately, recognizing her as the woman who always stood next to Macbeth — an individual of utmost will and cunning — the mastermind who crafted the plan to force the success in the gaining of their deserved throne.

Her expression is grim. “It is I, Lady Macbeth. Let us speak, shall we?”


	9. Act 2 Scene 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fleance passes by a depressed-looking Lady Macduff in the halls. Upon seeing her, Ghost Lady Macbeth gets some ideas.

As attentive as Fleance typically is, while proceeding down the hall to sort out his thoughts from the previous night, he nearly misses the sight of a quiet woman quickly whisking past him. She has a downtrodden look about her, a sad aura that seems to trail behind her like a lingering fog. It surprises him, therefore, to identify the woman as none other than the once dignified Lady Macduff. 

She is different, he supposes: more sad, certainly, but also beautiful in the way she had matured through loss as a woman. He speaks nothing to her, however, unwilling to interrupt her from her sorrow. Nevertheless, he feels for her loss and quietly wishes for her recovery.

He tries to put the image of the gentle, despondent lady out of his mind, but it definitely does not help when the smirking apparition of Lady Macbeth decides to instantaneously appear before him. 

Fleance can’t help his scowl. “But what’s here?” He whispers when he knows there is no one else around to hear.

The former queen simply shrugs. “Well, thy must secure thyself an heir worthy of thine name, now shan’t thee?”

“Ha!” Fleance shakes his head, baffled by her implication. “I see what thou are suggesting there, Your Highness… thou speak of marriage to me!”

“Oh, brains like yours you could do as my mute mule!” Lady Macbeth replies with a roll of her ghostly eyes. “Yes, of course I am speaking of thine wedding! A wife, my child, is what makes a man a man. Oh, the ever so beautiful bondage of marriage is the like, the—”

“Yes, yes, thine speaketh for thyself while I keep no business in matters of love.” Fleance waves dismissively, attempting to walk around the bothersome woman. “I wish for women but I know not of love. Not a single dime’s worth.”

“But thou do! Thou do, thou do, thou do.” Lady Macbeth nods with each phrase as she speaks them, “Thy denial is thy answer and the key to it all! What thou thinkest for thy father, is what but love. They say there is beauty in this unknown— and thou hast that!”

Fleance hesitates, an image of a woman flashing briefly through his mind, but he’s quick to shake the thought away. “It's not that simple.”

“Then thou demand for the clear answer. Thou ask me to play what the oracle is to the greeks.”

“Ay, am I no demigod’s worth then?”

“I wouldn't say if thou wasn't… Oh! Oh this compels…! Hark now!” Fleance turns to Lady Macbeth’s demand, and stares right into her dead eyes. “I refer to none other than the queen who has been crowned, the mother who has nurtured, she who has fallen but will rise to her master Fleance… Lady Macduff!”

Fleance actually flushes, but he’s quick to turn away, knowing what a pointless suggestion it was. “What is this foolishness! Dost thou knowest not that her great master Macduff took a–”

“Ay ay ay boy,” she interrupts him, sounding annoyed at the mere suggestion. “This old hag dost knoweth some things and among her wisdom’s rows lies this book of Lord Macduff’s death. But it is the perfect match, will thou admit not? — courage with status, royalty with bravery, brawn and brain with beauty. Go woo her germling. Be a man!” At Fleance’s unfaltering expression, she swoops in close and whispers teasingly, “Or, hast thou not the vein?”

“The ve– the vein– you talk to me of vein!” At this, Fleance realizes he’s had enough of her taunts. “I see it as immoral! Dirty, polluted even, to marry the dame who is like mine aunt. Keep to your own affairs lady! We have no more to discuss.” Angered by the discussion, Fleance storms off. 

“Thy lady goes to her late husband’s proceeding in two day’s time.” Lady Macbeth calls after him in reminder. “Be there to woo her then, thou grasshopper in love!”

Fleance pointedly ignores her, annoyance boiling in his blood. But he fumes alone, for the ghost behind him is laughing, her voice following him as it bounces off the halls like a never-ending echo.


	10. Act 2 Scene 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrought with grief, Lady Macduff goes to Friar Lawrence and demands for a potion.

With swollen eyes, dusty hair, and clothes dripping as though hanging upon a skeleton, enters this woman who would once attend royal banquets, drink expensive champagne, and wear ludicrous ruffles on her sleeves. Indeed, Lady Macduff has deteriorated to the fullest. 

“Friar, I haven’t been happier to find you in your little magic shop.”

“Pardon?” Friar Lawrence turns from his shelves and startles at the sight of the lady. Immediate concern traces its way onto his wrinkly forehead. He does not miss the black circles underneath her eyes, caused by her deprived sleep, nor does he fail to notice the way her hair sticks up in all directions, as if she had been too tired to bother combing it. “The pleasure is mine as well. What brings thee, madam?”

“Ah, when life cheats you, it teaches you a lesson!” Lady Macbeth lays herself upon his counter, looking eerily pale. “Do you know what that lesson is, Friar?”

“You don’t look like your usual self, Milady,” is his avoiding response. The friar turns himself momentarily, eyes scanning his shelves. “Can I get you something? A tonic perhaps or–”

Lady Macduff grabs his sleeve, forcing him to face her again. He looks into her dull eyes, and what he sees amazes him. They are dead and gray, without life and without purpose. All her fears are summed into an expression of pain and loss, of misery and hopelessness. She seems so fragile, that the friar is afraid that moving a single step would cause her to shatter like a glass vase.

“It teaches you that soon you cheat death or else it shall snatch everything most dear to you.” A tear runs down the downtrodden lady’s face. She lets out a sob and buries her face in her hands. “It is awful you must see me like this. Oh, awful and sad. Sadness and death have overcrept my soul and taken away my preciouses from me in the most mean and cruel ways, Friar… ‘tis most heartbreaking! My life as mother and wife are over and now I have no reason to live.”

She continues to cry. The Friar can not help but feel uncomfortable, and sorry for this broken woman. “Please, don’t talk of such things. If I can help you in any way–”

“And it is why I sought you,” she interrupts him, desperately grappling onto his sleeve once more. “G-Give it to me… give it to me, that poison of life. No… no, not poison. The ticket to solitude. A path toward my preciouses.” Her eyes wander off the friar’s face, and to the shelves and shelves of potions. She whispers, “I am coming, my loves. For you what murder and war hath done, that doth me, that mauve vial with the map of the soul to God.”

‘Wha-what misses?” The friar can’t believe what he is hearing. The woman has gone wild, grown insane and unstable. He quickly lowers his tone, as to not startle her. “I will comfort you, gentlewoman. Allow me. Two lovers that depended on me, their deaths do still hammer my heart with sickly nails. But you have done nothing to deserve this fate! Don’t talk about death like so.”

The gentlewoman finally lets go of his sleeve and gets up. The friar is relieved, thinking he had put some sense into her. But it is a short-lived relief, for she suddenly starts to stagger around, looking and moving from shelf to shelf in the most wild manner. Knocking over things, sending bottles toppling off the shelves, she is certainly at her most vulnerable.

Shocked, the friar chases after her, catching bottles as they fall. He is stopped when Lady Macbeth grabs the friar by the collar and demands for her poison, sniffing him like a wolf. “Bring me that and I will be ever grateful for your service. You have ruined two lives you said, right? Do me this deed and clear your soul. Cleanse it, oh alchemist!”

Friar Lawrence can say no more. He goes straight to the highest shelf in the room, with occasional glances at his back to assure himself Lady Macduff isn’t sharpening her knives. Cautiously he brings her a tiny vial, yet he keeps it just out of her reach. 

“You must promise me, m'lady,” the friar cautions. “A few weeks you must wait for effects most obvious, but before then, be sure to visit thou late one’s proceedings. The least, that is what you can do.”

A sadness suddenly hangs over her, yet she nods, accepting the compromise. “Of course,” she whispers hoarsely, and at the words of confirmation, the friar hands her the vial. Giving him one final sniff and a swift peck upon the cheek, Lady Macduff thus proceeds to drink the poison that would bring about her end… 


	11. Act 2 Scene 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm takes a stroll in the palace gardens, considering his love life, and hoping he will meet someone beautiful who can become his wife. Upon walking, he sees the perfect candidate.

The king moves through the gardens and their paths of cobblestone, between the flowering hedges and bushes of wondrous scents, and past the green trees with their leaves rustling in the wind. He trods down the stone path, taking in the peaceful scenery and the nature of beauty bestowed upon him. This was all very breathtaking, but Malcolm did not feel the least relaxed, nor pleased, by the wide palace gardens.

“Ah where art thou, good purpose, destroyer of the disease I suffer now! Do I long for thee like a lover, wishing he had not let his love flee.” He stops his walking and lets his lonesome gaze wander to the cloudless skies. “An empty ship I sail, over barren seas pale… Captain though I am, no captaincy showeth I.”

He resumes, his stride now more purposeful. The rocky path now had to shoulder his weight, along with his angry stomps. A pebble which also wanders into his shoe only contributes further to his desperate cries. “Oh wretched life! Cooketh thou the most wonderful meal, but add thou not any flavor? Wandering minds are not healthy minds — oh bring my purpose back, oh bring back mine purpose…”

Then suddenly, he halts his rant. Ahead, there was a figure… a woman. Malcolm tries to take a better look, stepping forward bit by bit, soaking in the image of this new appearance. This woman’s figure was unlike any woman he had ever seen. 

“Ah! The most delicious dame my eyes hath feast on…” Malcolm could barely believe his own eyes. “Her curves, her body, her lips… Ah Almighty, hath thee no mercy on thy thoughts, thou hast taken the paintbrush of attractiveness and made this item your canvas…” The woman turns a bit, and Malcolm sees more of her front. “Her eyes, like flames do pierce my heart! I… like it. She hath made me hers, with her sensational dart. My heart’s on fire for her love!”

The woman before Malcolm is pretty, perfect, and above all else, irresistible. She is a princess out of a fairytale. Malcolm suddenly feels quite faint, dreaming of a possible future with this damsel. He could promise her riches, wealth, fame, and power above all else. Surely, this beautiful creature would not resist a worldwide-handsome king’s hand in marriage? 

“Ay, I hath found my purpose, my life, my sleep… I want a pretty woman! My sleep, a sweet slumber shall it be, in the arms of this goddess! Oh, should I wake up to the cries of beautiful babies in a few morns, after some progress.” He begins to pace ever the more rapidly, desperately wishing to catch up to the figure, and to find out who this mystery woman is. “Oh catch mine eye, your prince charming, girl! For I need you more than anything else in this world!”

Malcolm stops in his tracks, abruptly very still. “Oh cupid,” He murmurs, “thou hath made me a fool… the lover’s fool! What sorcery thou played, thou wicked, wicked angel…”

Before him, only a few paces down the path, is none other than the gracious Lady Macduff.

“Lady Macduff!” He exclaims in quiet wonderment. She doesn’t hear him and turns to walk in the opposite direction. Malcolm watches her retreating figure, transfixed by her unexpected, beauteous transformation. New feelings are stirring within him, and Malcolm feels an irresistible thirst climbing up his throat. This thirst, Malcolm feels, has to be fulfilled. Now is not the time to hesitate nor to back down. 

“I hath no time to ponder what caused this irresistible glow, lady. But I will pursue thee,” he swears, “Now that thou hath no husband, nor master. For love is not over… so I will woo thee hastily!”


	12. Act 2 Scene 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few weeks after Macduff’s funeral, Fleance bumps into Lady Macduff and offers to comfort her. What starts as comfortable conversation gradually turns into something more.

Fleance had been drawn to Lady Macduff lately. He wasn’t sure why. They’d briefly spoken a couple occasions before, but today felt different. Upon seeing the lady sitting alone by herself, Fleance was compelled to offer companionship.

The lady hadn’t seemed annoyed by his approach. If anything, she welcomed his company. Both persons held Macduff in their hearts dearly, so the man’s death fell heavily upon them. Their grief mixed but, also simultaneously, ebbed away. Sharing the burden made it a little easier to handle. Opening up to someone made the world a little less dark.

Their conversation started simply and continued comfortably. As discussions continued, the two sat closer to one another, as if drawn to each other. Condolences changed to praise. Praise changed to flirtation. 

Fleance didn’t want to admit Lady Macbeth was right… but he could feel the bond that tied them. Every word Lady Macduff spoke, he yearned to hear more. Every accidental touch they made, he itched to sit closer. And he could feel, elatedly, that the lady felt the same. 

She started aimlessly humming, a sound sweeter than any Fleance had ever heard. “Thy voice calls me, a breeze of fair air in a clouded space.” Lady Macduff turns to face Fleance. The latter continued, as though speaking to himself. “This is a truth untold. Thine sounds emit grace. O for honey to be spread on bread, harmony and eloquence wed. Melody, each key strung from the heart, a sweet cry by a hart.” Fleance gently takes Lady Macduff’s hands in his. “Thou speak from the soul, every word escaping thine lips turning musical. A unique tongue, yet strangely warm. Unheard, yet instantly familiar.”

The lady blushes, much to her embarrassment. 

Taking her reaction as encouragement, Fleance continues quietly. “O stranger, where did you come from? Did I knowest thou from a birth previous? For this feels like jamais vu. My heart plays devious, for when your mouth parted, delicate wings flapping through thin air come for me wholehearted. Immaculate, each note inspiring thy breath life into every song thee sing.”

Fleance waits pensively for the lady’s response. She appears… thoughtful. Her eyes peer at him from under her eyelashes. “...They say eyes are the windows to the soul,” she begins softly. “But, I needn’t peek that far. For thine eyes be soulful in disguise: dragon-like, alive and youthful, sharp and truthful. They contain a burning thirst for curiosity.” She abruptly turns her head away. Fleance is momentarily worried he’s offended the lady, but she quickly shakes her head to reassure him. “Pray thee, I lose my sanity. For the longer I stare, a satanic affair… yet at the next movement of the hand, I see an innocent lad, wonder and intellect clad.”

Hope sprouts inside him. Cautiously, Fleance reaches forward and tucks a strand of hair behind the lady’s ear. At this action, the lady blushes furiously. “O, don’t torture me! With crinkles around these eyes, with gazes plain and nice.” She carefully rests her hand upon his cheek. “Small crescent forming on your face… warmth, love, sincerity, grace! Those inky black pupils… O, spare me foolish scruples. For twinkling, shrinking, honest eyes, ones I don’t trust to tell lies, shall send me to the grave if they shant restrain from misbehave.”

Fleance takes the lady’s hand in his, placing it on his chest. “If my heart be the moon,” he smiles, “Then I call thee moonlight. Nothing without you, but I’ll keep you by my side. You will never walk alone. You shine, you bring me purpose, you make my existence brighter. Those who aren’t thou only know to sweat and see. As for when moonlight shines through, be not none soul prettier than you.”

The lady’s heart flutters like butterflies, clinging to every word of the gentleman. She takes both his hands in hers and speaks: “O call me but moonlight. For I shine for thee! Tag me not as borrowed reflection. I'll be thine sun instead, for light doth bidding. I’ll bring warmth and gold — I'll be thine only, as the world revolves around us. For longer a fair maiden I be, yet my heart doth beat hotly for thee.”

“Then O gentle lady,” Fleance brightens, “Let moon and sun be wed, for earth be our subjects. Nothing without either, our rule shall be beyond compare, a thousand light years rare. Pray, thou art the cause of my euphoria.”

Lady Macduff forgets how to breathe. She knows herself. There is not a sign of doubt nor greed in this man’s eyes, and already, she feels the ‘yes’ already waiting there on the tip of her tongue. 

“Thoust make me strong for me, weak for thy,” she mumbles in mock annoyance. “A black swan! Thou art criminal, robber of hearts, thief of love, burglar of thoughts, stealer of feelings,” she accuses, poking his chest with her every complaint. “Thee hath trapped me, kidnapped me from myself.” At Fleance’s look of concern, the lady reassures him by touching her fingertips to his arm. “I’m thine, soul and body. Lost in thee, thou hath invaded my thoughts. Raider, looter, bandit, pirate! I’ll accuse thee!”

At the lady’s indignant expression, Fleance laughs quietly. His eyes are twinkling. “And how so, my lady?”

“Thou have too many charges against thee. O, shall I arrest thee? Only to keep thee by my side.” She shakes her head, then starts playfully. “We’ll make our prison out of love. I'll spend a lifetime there, if it's with thee. Keep me safe there and hold me tight, for I’m thine.”

Their faces are close, so close, that he can feel the lady’s breath on his cheek. Fleance knows the marriage he seeks is right at the tip of his fingers, yet...

“O, I can make it right, but answer me not so hastily,” he replies, preparing to stand. “For when lovers shall cross paths elsewhere, do tell me if thou still care.”

Then with as much dignity as he can muster, Fleance presses a gentle kiss to the hand of the flustered Lady Macduff and bids her farewell.


	13. Act 2 Scene 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During Lady Macduff’s walk to sort out her feelings for Fleance, she sees her reflection and realizes what the friar’s potion has done to her.

“Sweet slumber stung strong, but quickly quit.”

Lady Macduff resides in her dark chamber, speaking quietly to herself. Upon her bed she has lain all night, her swarming mind preventing her from resuming her nap. Many things confuse her. Why had the potion not worked? And even more strangely… why didn’t she care?

“The whole world was different since yesterday. Thy shook me into consciousness,” she continues to muse, “To myself I confessed, I didn’t sleep a wink. My eyes refused to blink. Yet, I saw sweet dreams. The crinkles around thy eyes made me beam. Drowse took flight, swooping and stretching like a white dove on a spring day. Alas, a fallen hero, by Cupid’s arrow of love.”

Troubled by her thoughts, Lady Macduff pushes away her covers and decides to walk about to calm her nerves. But the more she thinks about him, the more she can’t get his face out of her mind. Every step she takes, his features are only ingrained further.

“I was a lonely planet, my singularity engulfed me. It's fantastic how thy depressions became the cause of my happiness!” The lady sighs dreamily, “You make me begin. Almost ironic — but no, don’t get me wrong. The depressions, the concave ponds that thou adorn thy cheek with... bless! The ones thou wear on either side of thine face belong, those that only make an appearance upon thy smile that makes me dizzy to look at.”

She pauses suddenly, having made it to the palace garden. The air is cool but damp. At night, a sort of peaceful air resolves among the glowing flowers and their emerald leaves. Lady Macduff tilts her head upwards and sees the bright orb floating in the sky.

“...If thy face were the moon,” she breathes, “I’d be a fan of its craters. Thou beam and suddenly there art sunbeams dancing on the ocean. Thou twinkle and the little stars up high smile back, diamonds in the sky. Thou set the night alight. Yes… it's fantastic indeed, the way thy happiness cures my depression.”

Her eyes close for a moment. Then Lady Macduff continues her stroll, wondering where her deliberations will take her. This midnight interlude’s intention was to interpret her dreams and sort out her thoughts. What kind of revelation was she hoping to reach? 

“Because someone wise once wished that there were a word better than love,” she muses. “For answers, I now fish. Is this love? Sometimes I know, sometimes I don’t. Every passing second spent thereof, in thine momentous glory I seek. The sun will be warmer, the meadows greener… when I will declare myself that I love thee more than love herself!”

Lady Macduff, slightly shocked at her own revelation, falters in her step. Her, in love with Fleance? Carefully, she restabilizes herself on the edge of a nearby well. Her heart beating rapidly, the lady clutches her breast, surprised at the intensity of her own feelings.

“O lover,” she whispers, “will thou not pursue me in this manner? Or shall we be lovers who die in death’s agony, the love be our undying flame?” Her smile falls slowly. “But see me not so hotly for a simple woman I am. For I– I already hath worn a veil and made a vow. I already hath breathed and loved a name now dead.”

The edge of the lady’s vision ripples. Lady Macduff looks down into the well, observes the curious image shimmering at the surface of the water. 

“O, but what's this?”

She blinks at the reflection before her, barely believing her eyes. The wrinkles and pain, wrought by grief of the departure of husband and son, had been replaced by newfound youth and beauty. 

“Hath thy love made me a maiden younger?” She wonders in amazement. But there’s no doubt the woman she sees is herself. “For I stare at my reflection in waters cold and blue. To the old wrinkled me before, I do bid adieu! I feel fairer with my whole being. I speak in hopes of seeing is believing.

“But… thou I believe seeth beyond my looks, for thou stare at my soul and make me whole. He hath respect me for the lady I be… he sees not my beauty, he knoweth it, he experiences it. Ever so lovingly, ever so manly! He’s shown me I have reasons I should love myself. Thou art the best of me!”

The puzzle finally fit together and formed an epiphany. The lady smiles then, shaking her head. “Cunning friar, I knowest your play. Thouest play the most unfair games. Alas! I’m in thine debt, for if thou had let hell kiss me on my lips I would not have known such fairer lips of my prince.”

A newfound confidence swells inside her. All the pieces are set before her, by those who care for her. It is now only up to her to make a decision.

“O a lover’s fool, I seek, I be. But of course, Lord Macduff wished for mine integrity.

He would himself be a priest to tie the knot for the sake of my happiness, now hath he not? O, let me know!” She thoughtfully presses her lips into a thin line before standing up determinedly.

“Confront I, my love and sweet Fleance however, for he ought be the rightful judge, my lord! But I suppose this is what they call zero o’clock, since ready I am for good marriage. To take on a new flight, leave the disturbing past behind me. This is my time. Pray thee, let it flutter and tear, ‘til the black crow seteth its eye on it! Break it apart and fill my new life with colors, vibrancy, novelty!” She lets out a huge breath. “I will happily reside within our serendipity.”


	14. Act 3 Scene 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm goes to Friar Lawrence’s shop to rant of his misfortunes.

Friar Lawrence looks up warily as he hears the ragged steps of an approaching customer from outside his shop. He sighs inwardly, hoping that it wouldn’t be another crazed person begging for advice from him.

The front door bangs open. “How I sewed dreams of indulgence and relation, embroidered into a tapestry of her and I… Tore! Shredded to the last stitch!”

...it looks like the friar wouldn’t be so lucky.

The friar sighs, outwardly this time. “What is it that you need, Your Highness?”

Malcolm proceeds as if he hadn’t heard him.“Every weave lies beneath me, tousled in some sort of maze. Will I pick her up again? Will I finna find my time? I need her love before I fall… but a distorted picture ghosts me!”

“...I am guessing the Lady Macduff has been engaged?” 

The king stumbles towards the counter, nodding sullenly. “Like the birds that run on water, like the leaves that lay fallen on ground. I am fading… into an illusion, a facade, an expressionless creature. A breathing vessel, am I alive? Deprived of purpose, stripped of reason, I seek shelter to cover my exposed vulnerability, drowning it in the daily hustle-bustle. My role undefined, I shall play along! No rules to live by… don’t know what’s right or wrong…”

...Was this what this country’s king had been reduced to? A leader who not only knew nothing of his country, but even less of himself? The friar finally sets his work down and listens patiently, hoping the spiel will end soon.

“Ugh! I cry but no tears fall down,” Malcolm groans, appearing to shrink in on himself. “Cold air presses against my skin. I sweat in silence, listening to the air around me breathe. When will this wait be over? When will I feel whole again? When will there be no winter? No crying, no pain?”

Malcolm slumps onto the counter, arms covering his head in defeat. “I am but a force, a droplet among others in an ocean in which we float. I am invisible. Oh! But maybe that is my strength,” he lifts his head thoughtfully. “My weaknesses will become assets, my fears turned my strength. Why else would invisible and invincible sound so similar? Else, why would I lie to myself?”

Seeing that the king has finally fallen silent, the friar speaks up, hoping to knock some sense into him:

“Let this behavior not slip past thee, Malcolm. Have strength. Turn rage to let a spark off, let a fire loose and heat thee up. Agony and passion engaged, an eye for an eye. Let anger be met by its match. Play by the rules… was never thy game.” 

At the transfixed look of Malcolm’s wide-eyed expression, the friar continues, “Extinguish fire with more flame, fuel and blaze. Then vent in battle, produce a winner, and let ashes burn in your victory. As a phoenix rises from the black leaving a fragile, corrupted exterior. Taking soul to new feathers, rule with a new set of wings!”

“But…” Malcolm hesitates, looking down at his shaking hands, “if I chase inflame, the fate of Icarus looms over me. New wings I might hath, but new wings did no good to a greedy labyrinth prodigy. I fly high, passion invigorating me. I’ll reach for the sun, but deliquesce in vain.”

The friar lifts up two palms, seesawing them back and forth. “Flee or flight… Flee or flight… It all boils down to this. Will the mighty Malcolm bow to his inferior and accept defeat or will he raise his chip up high and fight till death?” The friar points to his noggin. “The answer pricks thy head with a thousand nails and the sound of hammers, yet the contrary slips from this tongue. But now, thou have reason.”

Malcolm appears confused for a moment, but realization quickly settles over his features. “Ay, I have reason…”

The friar nods seriously. “Thou have good reason now, never dismiss…”


	15. Act 3 Scene 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross and an old village man chat about symbolic soup.

“Pray, thou seemest very keen for the politics sire?”

To this old man’s remark, the nobleman grins teasingly. “With the facial hair and the bloom for love also builds the political interests, dost not think?” Ross asks. He readies his horse as he waits for the man’s reply.

But the old man only laughs at his response. “Very nicely said my man, very nicely indeed. May aye.” Suddenly, he lowers his voice, “Preposterous thy may thinkest but rumor has it that the townsfolk, say, are done with the same old broth that has been hotly bubbling the past recently, if thou know what I mean.”

Though the remark initially struck Ross as strange, he immediately realized the man’s intentions and played along. “The same broth that they were overjoyed to have filled their bowls only a some months ago?” He asks questioningly.

“The very,” the man confirms.

This was news. Great, good news, but Ross tried his best to hide the excitement behind his expression. “I could not say lies,” the nobleman replies quietly, “But the broth is rather… staling.”

The village man nods, looking grave. “But indeed. So you share the same thoughts with us, I’ll take it.”

Ross shrugs. “Perhaps. I may serve the broth but I have had enough drinking of it. This townsfolk,” He prompts, looking the other man in the eye, “I believe wants a new taste?”

“It is what I infer,” he confirms.

“But not just some changed ingredients will do it now, will they?” Ross asks. “We ask for a  _ different _ broth.”

“A less brewing, more even and fresher one I’ll say.” The man continues, not seeming to catch Ross’s deeper meaning. “Thou dost say to me that other waiters have been complaining of what they serve now?”

Ross stands a little back at this. “I have no say in this matter,” he decides. “Everyone’s taste buds are different. For me, this broth is brewing in the wrong pot and being poured down the wrong dishes.”

The old man eyes Ross for a moment longer before groaning. “Oh for the sake of God, this broth has me sick.” At this, he shakes his head pleadingly. “Please, say no more in terms of soup sire. An old man is made to hate the brothy goodness because of this business.”

“You are a mischievous devil man,” Ross grins. “But alright, alright, I shall tell thee of what I refer to as new broth.” And then he leans down next to the man’s ear, and whispers quickly, “The broth I believe I should serve, the broth that everyone craves for now… is  _ Fleance. _ ”

At this, the man startles. “You mean that hunk o’ a lad who hath more the brawn and face?”

Ross smiles. “The exact.”

“But… hath he any brain with all that! Or is it pure muscle?”

“If there is anything more in that man, there is compassion and wit, I will say,” Ross argues. “And with that, I suggest I take thine pardon sir, for the court awaits my hand in serving our subjects broth.” And with a simple wink of farewell, Ross turns and departs the village on his horse, leaving behind an old man in deep thought.


	16. Act 3 Scene 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm, blinded with fury, challenges Fleance to a duel in front of everyone.

“He’s calling for Fleance.”

“Who?” Fleance turns in surprise to the window, “Who’s calling me?”

No one answers him, but the people outside repeat their message in uttered whispers. “He’s gone crazy. He’s mad. He is calling for Fleance, Fleance, Fleance…”

Fleance stumbles out the palace, following the trail of voices. As he nears the source of the gossip, he can hear the actual voice calling him now, a challenge issued wide-open in an empty courtyard surrounded by crowds of citizens.

“Come to me, Fleance!” The king shouts, sword raised in the air, “You filth of the earth! You scoundrel that hath betrayed me! Be a man and face atonement for thine actions!”

Fleance shoves through the crowd, and finally makes it to the center. “What in the world is this?”

A smirk grows on Malcolm’s face. “Ha… thou have come. For the last time thou have disgraced me. For the last time you will stand up to me. I am your king! Thou can take nothing from me! Thou can only bow to my blade!”

A sword is thrown into the arena. It slides across the ground, stopping at Fleance’s feet. “What have I done to earn your resentment?” Fleance wonders in bewilderment, “Why is your animosity towards me so strong?”

Malcolm’s grin turns into a sneer. “Listen, thou art only a thief. You have taken everything away from me. My precious lady has been stolen… but scum like you doesn’t deserve her! You ought to be taught your place. Before all these people, I shall strike you down! Know that I have spoken to the three witches, and they have foretold my future! This will be the end, Fleance! I am thy king!”

At these words, the crowd murmurs in anticipation. Malcolm stands tall, but in lieu of an expected triumphant smirk drawn on his lips, his face is clad with sheer curiosity– like that of a child who had been asked something he didn’t know the answer to. For a moment, Fleance just stands there in silent thoughtfulness.

“Thou art not a king,” Fleance speaks suddenly, quietly, “Thou art a coward.”

The people gasp in surprise at the bold words. Everyone’s heads have turned to the king, expecting nothing less than a fury-ridden reply. But to the crowd’s surprise yet again, the king does not retaliate. Malcolm’s sword lowers, his face contorts, and tears begin to stream out of his eyes.

“Yes,” Fleance continues solemnly, “you are a coward — afraid of being lonely, afraid of being unimportant. The truth be,  _ Your Highness, _ that thou crave for my attention… it makes thee grander, does it not? Challenging a duel with Fleance, more respected than thee.”

Malcolm shudders. “L-Lies!”

Fleance ignores the outburst. He continues, his words surprising even himself as they fell out of his mouth, for his mind was finally understanding his contender. “Thou seekest revenge in her most cruel form. Out of crave! Because thou need me. I am your hope.”

The king’s sobs had grown ever louder throughout Fleance’s claims, his sword shaking in his grip. “...I have been seeking shelter under the skirts of great men and women, Fleance. Born to a king’s castle; I didn’t ask for it! I didn’t ask for any of it! You will never understand the pains and the pressures, the blood, sweat, and tears I shed of being an heir, an unwanted heir…

“My brother ran away in time but I was held back. Against my will! And then you became the town favorite without any effort… I envy thee. I envy every breath thou take and every glance thee receive from the townsfolk. Thou took everything I wanted but gave me everything I didn't know I needed. And then finally,  _ finally _ , I saw a moment to make myself glorious! Earn what others hath had!” He points his finger forwards, “By eliminating you!”

“The other side of the bridge, where the waters are grayer, where my nose scrunches at smells stale and stench.” The king looks down at his hands, a crazed look in his eye. “The winds and the water fly past me. The stones and rocks have their heads turned away, yet my feet keep pedaling. My body keeps swaying, to the thought of thee.

“I go faster, defying what is against me. I see boundless road in front of me; no end, no direction! Yet I peddle faster to the view of adventure…!”

The king laughs quietly to himself, putting a hand to his forehead. “Are waters becoming bluer when thou art whispering in my ear? Are defying winds making me tread easy on uneven roads? Are stenches masked by nature’s fragrance? Are voices of outside becoming one with thee? The other side I always thought was ideal… Not this. Where the sun never shone, where no soul walked alone. But thy presence had me prancing to winds, breathlessness becoming excited grasps for air! I wanted to stop but thou made me go faster. Wonder-clad, thou made me search for adventure. A path I took where sunbeams danced to thy melody, where waves washed up on shore to thy harmony.”

A sudden shift began to take place. The tears of the king had stopped, replaced by an expression of pure malice. Malcolm smiles cruelly at Fleance, raising his hands to the sky,

“Thou showed me signs when I only believed in science! An escapade I was starting to see. Finally I had met my purpose. A reason! A reason! To finally seek revenge!” The king began to pace, his eager eyes never leaving Fleance. “I felt alive and real in that moment, aware of my every breath and heartbeat. I greet trees, I meet breeze. Would I have known myself or been aware of your spells? Would they have known my name — the leafs, the stones, the afar mountain ridge — if it weren’t for an adventure across the other side of the bridge?”

“I do crave vengeance! Vengeance from thee! I needed only a mere reason to drag thee to the battlegrounds and thine good lady served me.” Malcolm points his sword at Fleance, the blade glinting in the sunlight. “This will be your end Fleance! An end that will bring new beginnings! For I go down, I am bringing thee with me!”

Determination swells inside Fleance. Comprehending the situation, he picks up the sword at his feet and adapts his fighting stance. “Thou have no jams. I vouch to strike an end to thine sickly obsession. To cure thee, I accept your duel, Malcolm. Do not regret this should I become your spine breaker.”

Fury boils in the king’s eyes. “You think you can win? Then prove it!” he spits.

Without warning, Malcolm lunges at him. Fleance narrowly avoids the first strike as it passes his ear, and parries the second with his sword. The king is foolish but strong, and his anger has made him outrageously powerful. Fleance’s arms tremble with the force of each collision of their blades.

But what Fleance lacks in experience, he makes up for with speed. For every strike of the king’s, Fleance carefully parries, stopping each attack. The crowd looks upon Fleance with admiration of his invincible defense.

“Is that all you can do?” Malcolm sneers. “Only a coward would hide behind his weapon instead of holding it like a real man.”

“I’m just holding back,” Fleance retorts. He suddenly changes his stance and quickly slashes forwards. The crowd gasps as a piece of Malcolm’s clothing flutters to the ground.

“Holding back?” Malcolm mocks. “Laughable!”

Fleance continues to sidestep the swings of the enraged king. He ignores the taunts of the king and, when he sees an opening, he strikes and hits surely.

The king howls. He stumbles and takes two steps back, hand latched to his shoulder. “So you got one hit. You think this is over?”

“Not until you admit defeat,” Fleance replies curtly.

The two charge at each other again. The crowd watches with pensive awe as the sounds of clanging swords fill the air. Fleance knows he can’t dodge forever. If this battle went on forever, the fatigue would catch up to him, putting the raging king devoid of tiredness at an advantage. All Fleance needs is to land one more hit, and be sure that hit is enough to end it all.

Already, his arms are growing numb with blocking Malcolm’s attacks. But in a sudden flash, Fleance sees his chance. With a quick swipe, Fleance sets upon his counterattack and plunges the sword into Malcolm’s side.

The king screams, collapsing to his knees. Fleance had made sure to strike an area that would incapacitate him, but keep him alive. Malcolm had put up with a good fight, but in the end, victory is Fleance’s. It is finally over.

Malcolm topples over, unconscious and bleeding. Fleance lets out a sigh of relief, dropping his stance and wiping away the sweat on his brow as doctors from the crowd scurry out to attend to the king. Malcolm is hastily wrapped up and carried away on a stretcher, all the while amidst a cheering crowd.

They’re all cheering Fleance’s name.


	17. Act 3 Scene 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Lady Macduff passes the infirmary, she is shocked to hear the ramblings of Malcolm, who swears to destroy Fleance through defamation.

“Ah ghastly fates, what luck have thou bestowed upon me. If thee had null to shower, spare thy woes and toils, I ask you in the kindest!” 

Lady Macduff pauses upon hearing these ragged words. Perturbed at the speech, she nears the infirmary, listening to the words of the man continue to float out in bursts of what appear to be desolation: 

“For change, hopefully for the better. A novel life, the start of something new… nay, the closure of something old. Wrinkled, aged, shriveled, bored and dull, I sat through dusks and dawns to the music of crickets and yawns. I sat… as the world left me.”

Lady Macduff stops outside the infirmary and, instead of entering, carefully presses her ear against the thin wall to listen closely to the voice of Malcolm.

“When soles were withered,” the king continues hopelessly, “When soul was surrendered, I could walk no more. For I dreamt to only run. Replay that segment… I didn’t stir. Worn weather and warm winds flew far… Thou is unfair ol’ life; thou sting strong, thoust put me in this slumber! I know it’s over. But for now I hath no desire richer than to quench thee out of that treacherous fool!”

Eyes widening, Lady Macduff cautiously peeks her head into the room. There the lowly Malcolm lies alone, only a shadow of his former reign, incapacitated and beaten. He remains stationary and, though he appears calm, his words spout out in an opposite fashion:

“His very calling boils the blood in my veins! His presence— a constant reminder of my weaknesses! His breath foul, his every heaving chest a stinging second.” A sinister pause, where Malcolm lets out a small chuckle. “But oh, irony be as clever as a fox. For it is I who will take it upon himself to bring closure.” 

A shiver crawls down Lady Macduff’s spine. Did the king intend to harm her beloved Fleance? This devious king, who took not only one husband away from her, but now wanted to take her second? 

Slowly, she begins to creep into the infirmary. This evil had to stop. She had to stop Malcolm, before it was too late, before he went completely out of control. The opportunity lies there, as if it were meant for her. She had never been able to protect her loved ones before, but now… now she could.

“The very man that holds himself stronger than I… Man be foolish, gullible, and stupid!” Malcolm continues to laugh madly, blind to the woman approaching him. “He shan’t see it coming. This will be the storm of the storms, for I…” Malcolm cackles, “For I will declare him Macbeth’s son!”

_ He dare take that name in her presence!  _ Lady Macduff crouches resolutely at the side of Malcolm’s hospital bed. This sealed the deal; there was no room for argument. Only she could do this.

Malcolm suddenly grows silent. The lady panics, wondering if he has heard her enter. Without warning, the bed holding Malcolm begins to shake with a tremendous force, and the king himself begins to convulse rapidly.

“N-No…!” He suddenly screams, his eyes blood-shot and wide, staring into the empty air, “ _ You! _ No, thou art– you’re supposed to be  _ dead! _ Thee–”

The king’s eyes roll back and his breathing suddenly stops. Before she can register the change, Lady Macduff has already raised her dagger.


	18. Act 3 Scene 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fleance hears news of Malcolm’s death and hurries to see the truth for himself.

“Sire, sire, sire!”

Fleance, alarmed, gets up from his chair and glances out the window to see who is shouting for him in such a boisterous tone. He discovers a wide-eyed messenger running in his direction, clearly urgent to deliver some important news.

With a quirk of his lips, Fleance rushes to the door. "Doth cruise with utmost excitement, eh mister?"

"Sir," the man starts, screeching to a stop in front of Fleance, pausing to catch his breath, "Sirah..."

“Anon now,” Fleance encourages, placing a gentle hand upon the man’s shoulder, “on dost go.”

“His Highness…” The man’s voice quivers in awe, almost like he can’t quite believe the news he’s about to deliver. “His Highness has taken his last breath!” 

Fleance blinks in surprise, unconsciously taking a step back. He narrows his eyes at this strange messenger, this man who, despite having just delivered what should’ve been devastating news, was nearly hopping with excitement. 

Without a word, Fleance rushes past the astonished messenger, hurrying quickly to the infirmary. Malcolm, dead? It couldn’t be that easy. Certainly, Fleance had wounded the King to a great degree, but the injury was not great enough to ascertain death. Uncertainty pounds through his heart as he runs, his steps unfaltering as they echo back at him.

As he nears his destination and sees the door to the infirmary right before him, his thoughts flash back to the prophecy of Three Witches. _The sun will rise_ , the words trickle into his mind.

Fleance slows to a walk. There is already a crowd gathered in the room, but the whispering ceases when Fleance enters. He strides forward to the hospital bed, and when the crowd parts he sees him — sees Malcolm lying there, eyes cold and shiny, sheets stained with pools of red.

“The hour dove premature.” Fleance whispers, kneeling and taking the King’s lifeless hand in his. “The clock struck as the sun had only risen, and declared it dusk. The hour of freedom from the wretched claws of life, nature, greed, corruption, desire, and pursuit – liberated!”

_Revenge be yours, as death persists._

Fleance sucks in a breath then, unable to stop a sudden flood of emotion, and he lets the stream of tears that follow come. “Death, absolute and fine,” He continues, gripping Malcolm’s cold hand tighter. Not meeting the dead man’s eye, he addresses the crowd: “Isn’t it what thou dost crave? Thou art but the creature of immortality and nirvana what we seeketh. Fear not, for our hour will arrive.” Fleance pauses. “Only, at this hour we degrace his presence without a ruler.”

A silence follows. Fleance takes the act upon himself to close the old King’s eyelids as the whispers of the crowd around him start up again. He pretends to ignore their furtive glances at him, continues to hold his kneeling position until… 

“Sire,” one man among the crowd says, “We think, should it not be of denial by you… that thou ought to be our new king.”

Agreement ripples through the crowd. What was only a suggestion was in fact quietly wished upon by all the hearts in the room, and what started as only a whisper slowly became a call of hope, a people in unison, voices of approval chanting his name:

“Fle-ance! Fle-ance! _Fle-ance!_ ”

_Honor to gain, but not like his._

Fleance stands suddenly, and the chants die down. He turns slowly and when he lets his gaze rove over the people, he sees no mistake in their eyes. They want _him_ to be King. They _need_ him to be King.

Fleance places a single hand over his heart and makes a small bow. “Humbled. Grateful. Lapsed.” Words echo in the chamber, as though God himself has spoken. He begins, “Thou have vested in me thy loyalty and I know not how to forgo it. Though many can wear my disguise well yet this quaking voice has been heard.”

He takes a step forward, raising his other hand to form a fist. “Let us quicken the hour, this holy moment,” he proclaims, “for I vow to serve thy kingdom and thy children and wives for still be eternal and this land — be pilgrimage — remembered for rich and fertile. I, simple Fleance, will faithfully lead thou as thy novel King!”

Cheers break out, and the room fills with joyous laughter as the chants of Fleance’s name start up once more. What was the tragedy of the previous King’s death had been quickly overshadowed by Fleance’s crowning. And it had all been as the Three Witches predicted:

_The son will rise. And the son will rise and shine brighter than all the rest._


	19. Act 3 Scene 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A year has gone by since Fleance took kingdomship and made Lady Macduff his queen. The joyous day has finally arrived when the queen has produced an heir to the royal family. Fleance, Lady Macduff, and Ross are at the delivery room as Fleance hails his firstborn and evil triumphs over the good.

“A daughter? A son?”

“The most beautiful child of parents, doubly fair and noble… Oh for our kingdom to be complete, a nest, a sweet burrow in the haughty palace grounds— Oh how rousing!” Women gossip among themselves. 

“Hark, the royal heir, be due at sundawn!” Rumors spread like wildfires. 

“Sundawn? But a witch on the cornerstone of the dark and wild alley hath seen a vision, and I recount, ‘On the night of the thirteenth day in the sixth month of the calendar, a son shall take birth within the walls of our lord’s house and bring with him turmoil, turbulence, and tragedy’,” one beggar goes around preaching.

“Rubbish! Thou dare speakest ill of a harmless bub before he grace the earth with his wee paws?” villagers retaliate.

“Oh, the heir will be handsome and charming like his father!” girls gush.

Varied thoughts yet mutual emotions of excitement and eagerness cloud the hearts of citizens. And for valid reason, for it had been a year since King Fleance took kingdomship and ruled justly with his Queen Lady Macduff. The folks of the city were rejoicing the long-awaited arrival of their heir and they couldn't pick a better royal family to rule their beloved city.

\---

Ross enters, rather frivolously. His crimson robe flying past him, his trimmed hair set just right, a confidence in his stride, Ross exuberates with a sense of power. Being the king’s right-hand loyal man, Ross was deemed a noble worthy of keeping Fleance company as the latter was on the verge of claiming fatherhood as his. 

“Congratulations, my lord!” Ross announces graciously upon stepping foot in the delivery room and already suspecting a baby born. “Your Highness, you have produced the justice, the gem to this country. My hearty felicitations to you on this happy occasion.” 

“But he is yours too,” the new mother smiles wearily. “Ross, it would be my pleasure to declare you as our son’s Godfather. Do good to him.”

Ross bows. “An honor, madam, that you should entrust me with a title like this. An honor, really.”

She turns her head to Fleance and chimes, love etched deep in her eyes, “He looks so much like you, my lord.”

As their child is handed to him, Fleance cradles his firstborn in his arms and suddenly everything becomes oblivious to him. He couldn't express how he felt at that moment. Appalled at nature and her intricate hands? Beholden for humankind and its ways of bringing man to the world? Ecstatic for the sheer existence of his creation? Words failed him.

Instead, his eyes spoke for him. They shone bright, passionate and fiery, the undying flames illuminating the dark room. The noble observed, then disregarded what he saw, thinking emotion and light were tricking him in this holy hour. Fatherhood, Ross thought to himself, was nature’s finest creations. The gleam in Fleance’s eyes was a breathing affirmation to the joy the latter was bathing in — nothing more, nothing less.

However, Ross’s conscience and being wouldn’t disagree more with what came to escape the treacherous lips of His Highness.

Seeing his father in his son, King Fleance finally spoke, letting a gay tear down his cheek and with his words, a body of the new Godfather. 

“Hail, future heir of England, my offspring, for I name thee after the man thou will bring justice to, years after his demise and the fall of the greatest name in the history of mankind and beyond… Hail, Macbeth!” 

* * *

_Fin_


End file.
